


「Will You Love Me When Tomorrow Comes? | 因為昨天我已愛上你」

by yuren



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Anyways, Casual Relationships - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, M/M, Suggestive Themes, and instead of working on an iwaizumi or on sunday umbrella, i wrote yet another kageyama in a bed T_T, soft angst, the summary on tumblr was seasonal insecurities lmao, was feeling sad, with yet again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuren/pseuds/yuren
Summary: You should have known from the start, in the dimmed lights like beacons on green velvet seats, that you would only be breaking all kinds of promises to yourself. He pulled you in like the shadow on a sunlight day, like the clouds that come to eclipse the sun, ones that turn summer into rain. And when he tipped back his whiskey-mezcal drink — you now laugh at how it’s so aptly named “The Torrents of Spring” — his eyes had been all kinds of seasonal blues. You took the bait, letting autumn, winter, and whatever that is spring entice you to say your first “hello.”Later that night, you became drunk on the winterblooms of his lips.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	「Will You Love Me When Tomorrow Comes? | 因為昨天我已愛上你」

> _The Torrents of Spring_ by The Old Man, Hong Kong. 
> 
> Ingredients: glutinous rice cooked mezcal, grain whisky, amaro nonino, clarified william pear, pom-beat shrub, charcoal.

His breath comes in slow even beats, the dawn-fed dewdrops of a springtide storm. Tonight was the last of winter’s rains, heaving passion and frenzied urgency, where whispers escalated into northern winds before coming back down again into the sighs of a false equinox’s spring.

Each time is the last, and the last will lead to a first. And that first is always supposed to be the last. But life doesn’t work like that. It’s like the first, second, and twenty-third cookie you like to sneak from the blue tin cans when Kageyama’s not looking. By the time you promise yourself that you’ll be done when the last of the raisin ones are gone, a new box magically appears the next week you visit.

You’ve never even seen him eat one either so you don’t know if he’s always had the habit of just keeping them around or if, perhaps, he’s buying them for you. And you don’t ask, only continuing to eat them because doing so will mean that you’re still welcomed.

You do know that he’s rich though because how else would he have a regular supply of blue tins filled with actual cookies and not sewing supplies? He’s also famous; you know because you’ve never actually met any of his friends. Or maybe he doesn’t have friends. Better yet, he doesn’t have friends for you to meet. 

Because you’re not like that. You’re not, you know, lovers.

Not in the traditional sense. You can’t tell if he does traditional; you’ve never asked, and Kageyama’s never offered this information or much of other information at all.

You know that he’s a professional volleyball player – that detail is rather hard to miss. But all else is up to your anxious imagination. He seems like he’s got a good head on his shoulders, a little dense sometimes but he makes sure that you’re taken care of each time.

He probably enjoys what you have going on. But you also know that things often turn out to be false. Like the promise you had made yourself the first time you had approached him, that that night would the first and last. 

You should have known from the start, in the dimmed lights like beacons on green velvet seats, that you would only be breaking all kinds of promises to yourself. He pulled you in like the shadow on a sunlight day, like the clouds that come to eclipse the sun, ones that turn summer into rain. And when he tipped back his whiskey-mezcal drink — you now laugh at how it’s so aptly named “The Torrents of Spring” — his eyes had been all kinds of seasonal blues. You took the bait, letting autumn, winter, and whatever that is spring entice you to say your first “hello.”

Later that night, you became drunk on the winterblooms of his lips. 

Kageyama to his credit, has never broken any promises; he doesn’t make them in the first place. Hell, he never even told you “yes” that first night. It’s only ever a little caress here, a small nod there with this man. And he’s never said anything that might lead you to believe that April would bloom into May or that June would swelter into the dog days of July. But Kageyama’s kind enough to never let winter stay with the dead, even when the night only brought muddy slush or first snows instead of the usual snowstorms. He lets you stay for the night, and winters with him eventually led to a taste for the other seasons. 

Autumn, summer. Soon enough, you fell into the torrents of spring.

Your heart beats.

Maybe it’s the bit of charcoal in his favourite drink. 

He stirs, and you watch his lashes sweep his skin, willow on water.

You start to apologize. 

“Why’re you awake?” he yawns, his breath bringing you into reds, yellows, and golds.

You’ve always indulged in the way his voice softens with sunrise. It’s decidedly different from the deep rumbles of the night. 

The blues blink open, and you can cry at the summer skies. 

“Can’t sleep,” you whisper back, stuffing the apology as his hand comes to rest at the height of your hip.

His fingers press in a little, and you see his eyes flicker down then up. 

“Do you want to...” His question trails off into a blush.

You wonder more often than you should on how he is so many things all at once. 

From the blues of his skies, you trail down into warmth of his neck. There’s a splattering of faint marks there, the little buds of spring in the snow.

His hand grips even firmer, hesitant on kindling a fire, but you shake your head. Kageyama’s kind enough to always ask first, but you won’t be able to handle anymore storms tonight no matter how warm and fulfilling it’d be on the last of winter’s nights. The memory would come to bite you at another 3am, since you’ve promised yourself that you’ll end this intoxication in the spring.

But Kageyama’s hand is still on your tepid skin, and it’s now shifting up, gently, silently, skimming through the darkened kisses of the hours past, over your arms where you’ll feel the sores in the days that follow. The hand that makes his fame comes up to your neck, where he had become drunk on the simple things. He maps the temperatures of your body, warming up the skinbound memories, wiping away the seasonal boundaries right up to your head.

“What do you want?” he mumbles, fingers pressing gentle patterns into your scalp. “Wanna help.”

They’re steady, they’re firm, and your frosted lips are trembling in the spring-autumn sun.

You look at him. His eyes are blue. His lips are pink. You know that his tongue is honest and his soul is kind. Kageyama’s rich, he is famous, and his house is where the cookie jars hold cookies like they’re suppose to. 

“Hey, Tobio.” 

He had introduced himself as such. He speaks no lies.

And his lips draw into that ugly little smile that you love as much as you hate, his eyes flash with something that is much too tender for what was supposed to be the last of winter’s rain.

He whispers your name, and you hesitate, mind pausing, rewinding, before all together reawakening at how delicate the syllables sound rolling past his lips.

_Will you be here when winter ends?_

“What’s your favourite drink?”

“Milk?” he looks surprised.

You’re surprised too.

_Will you love me when spring starts?_

“Why do you always have blue tin cookies here?”

“You?” His confusion is cute. 

You probably have a similar expression on your face.

Your lips hovers over his, sun drenched and waiting for tomorrow.

_Will you love me when tomorrow comes?_

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” he grins widely.

This time, you return it.

Maybe next week, you’ll ask him about his friends. 

For now, you’ll just continue breaking promises, and when the time comes, you want to take him into spring.

Pressing your lips to his, you fall in love with the taste of late winter’s ambrosia in his springtide breath.


End file.
